


The New Tristan

by thewinterspy



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Chess Metaphors, Gen, Subtle Spy Power Plays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 19:13:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3540842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewinterspy/pseuds/thewinterspy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before he was the world's only consulting detective, he took on the world's most dangerous job interview.</p><p>"Are the Kingsman worth dying for?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The New Tristan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pearlxthunder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearlxthunder/gifts).



The creak of metal was what he first sensed as he blearily awoke. The lighting of the room, thankfully for his eyes, was dim. There were ceiling lights, flickering and faulty. They were lined up one after the other, what seemed miles and miles away from him. He blinked, feeling his eyes still heavy with sleep, and moved to wipe them when he realized he could not, in fact, sit up. Rope bound his wrists and ankles to long iron rails. With a jolt, he realized exactly where he was. He'd been at the party, complimenting the girl's dress, letting her unbutton his shirt... the waiter offering more drinks... He inhaled sharply as a spike of fear rose from his chest, his head darting back and forth as he studied his surroundings drastically. There had to be an escape route, _get out get out get out_ \- but he couldn't concentrate. His mind sorted through an array of data, all from the last recorded moments of past agents...

 

Did an agent panic or cry or beg? No, never. He took a deep breath and set his head straight so his gaze was focused on the ceiling. He had to get out. He had to think. Think, damn it, think!

 

The click of a heel made his train of thought stop dead in its tracks. Hm, no pun intended? he thought wryly. There, that was it. Nothing gave him peace like dry wit. He clung onto that thought as a man stepped into view. It was the bloody waiter - oh, he should've seen that coming.

 

"Do you see this?" Russian clouded the man's accent. He smiled, teeth chipped and crooked, as he held up a single blade - nothing impressive, but it would get the job done, speaking in a murdering sense. "You see this knife? This knife can save your life. Do you want it?"

 

"Depends. What do you plan on doing with it after you save my life?"

 

The man chuckled, low and intimidating. "Oh, I don't want to kill you. I like you. We have plenty of use for you, Sherlock Holmes."

 

His eyes narrowed. So much for going under an alias for the honey trap. He was in fact Sherlock Holmes, and compared to most people at the ripe age of 24, he couldn't disagree with the fact that he was very useful. Oxbridge boy with the right connections, physically adept, and very, very clever.

 

Maybe too clever for his own good.

 

He tipped his head to the side, studying the man in front of him. Knowing he was being a brat and reveling in it, he smirked. "Doesn't seem very fair, you knowing about me and not the other way around. Usually I like to get to know someone before we bring out ropes."

 

"Yes, well. Life isn't fair now, is it?" Slowly, he tipped the knife to the side, gesturing for Sherlock to look over. He heard before he saw - a hooting whistle, two blaring lights drawing nearer from the end of the tunnel.

 

No, life wasn't fair at all-

 

Sherlock's head whipped back around, and he stared at his interrogator.

 

"What did you say?" he whispered, but the man was speaking over him.

 

"Now, I can save you now, Mr. Holmes, provided that you tell me about a little name I've heard. About this _King Arthur_ , and his Kingsman-"

 

"No, what did you say?" Sherlock demanded, "Life isn't fair. You said that."

 

The man smiled. "Yes, that I did. Not fair at all."

 

Sherlock vividly remembered sitting in the family room, three textbooks over freckled knees, an insistent tutor, syntax, pronunciation- AER, not AIR.

 

"You're saying it wrong. That's not a Russian accent," he said.

 

Why lie? Why change your voice? To disguise himself from Sherlock? Sherlock was about to die, what did it matter?

 

"Does it really matter where I'm from, Sherlock? When I've got the knife, and the clock's ticking."

 

"It does matter. Why would you lie about your voice?"

 

The train's whistle blew, ringing in Sherlock's ears, but he refused to drop it.

 

"You're going to die right now unless you tell me what I want to know! Are the Kingsman worth dying for?"

 

The man's not really Russian, he's faking an accent (rather horribly, mind), demanding information about a secret service that, as far as he knew, had been a thoroughly kept secret. How did he know? He was asking the wrong questions - not who, or how, where, where was he, how did he get from a heavily monitored operation in a club to a life-threatening situation underground with a train coming?

 

The pieces came together so suddenly that Sherlock was sure he heard the finishing click his mother used to make with her tongue when she was done with a puzzle.

 

Sherlock looked at the man, looked at him properly, and said, "You'll have to try harder, Mycroft."

 

The train roared and flew over.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"He's more trouble than he's worth."

 

The two men were watching the final protégés on the grounds, playing with the puppies that had grown. There were three going to the final test, young and bright still. To most, they were mature adults, but to the guardians observing, they were only children. One boy was standing while another boy and a girl watched, seeming to tell an elaborate story that the others laughed at. They all shared the same dark curls, although the second boy didn’t match the darker skin that his friends had. He had brought out a small tennis ball, let three bouncing puppies chase after it every once in a while. The dogs were theirs: a Doberman that had more interest in chewing the girl’s blazer than chasing the ball; a chubby St. Bernard that kept tripping over his paws; and a lanky Irish Setter, who seemed to have the most to prove to the boy throwing the ball. They all were happy. It was the last days of childhood, and they still believed it’d be the three of them to the end of their days.

 

“Which one?” the older man asked, offering a toothy grin in response to his agent’s frown. “They’re all troublemakers.”

 

“You know what I mean.”

 

“Of course I do. Now, I know you’ve never had faith in him. Sherlock’s a brat, but a bloody brilliant one.”

 

“Send him home. Now, Arthur.”

 

“Nonsense. He will take the final like the others,” Arthur was about to turn and walk away, but seemed to remember a small fact. He place his hand on the other’s shoulder, “I have a meeting with the prime minister tomorrow. See to your brother, won’t you, Mycroft?”

 

“... Yes sir.”

 

\---

 

In Arthurian legend, King Arthur led the Knights of the Round Table and governed the Briton Empire, all from his throne.

 

Arthur’s study was the new throne room. It sat at the front and centre of the Kingsman’s estate, its wide windows overlooking the entirety of the grounds. Nighttime had fallen, the moon casting long light into the room. It fell on plush armchairs, ancient tables, pristine bookshelves lined with the most elaborate volumes in all kinds of languages. A fire was building in the grate, working through the smouldering logs that kept the heated coals buried.

 

The man himself was not present, but the two Holmes brothers were, facing each other in the armchairs. A small table had been moved to sit in between - Mycroft was setting up the pieces. Sherlock returned to the table, having just tossed out the match that started the fire, and unbuttoned his suit jacket before sitting. Redbeard, the trainee’s dog, curled up by the fireplace, his eyes flickering back and forth before he got bored and set his head down for a nap.

 

“You do know that this isn’t actually your office, right?” the younger brother taunted, pinching the board by a corner and turning it. Mycroft stopped him by putting two fingers in the way.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“I’m the white pieces, first goes.”

 

“Says who?”

 

“What do you mean says who, I called it, I go first.”

 

“I’m the first born, I go first.”

 

“First to die, no doubt,” Sherlock said childishly, contorting his face into a grimace and leaning across the board.

 

Mycroft sighed, and set the board straight. “Well, who lasts long in this business anyway? I was lucky.”

 

“Mm.” Sherlock slumped back, considering his words for a moment, before mentioning, “Mummy would disagree.”

 

“And what Mummy doesn’t know won’t hurt her, so don’t you start going on about Paris during Christmas dinners.”

 

“You’ll have to explain the limp eventually, _Tristan_.”

 

Mycroft, who’d reached out to pick up his first piece, froze for a moment. After a beat, he picked up a pawn.

 

“Not anymore.” Mycroft moved his first pawn. “That’s why you’re here, after all, Sherlock. Arthur seems to think Tristan can become a family name. That’s why he chose you, wasn’t it? Pawn to D4.”

 

“Wouldn’t be a family name for long now, would it? As if we have anyone else to pass it on to.” Sherlock brought forward a knight, jumping over the front line. “Knight to F6.”

 

“Pawn to E4.”

 

Sherlock frowned down at the board, considering Mycroft’s move, before playing one of his own. “Pawn to G-”

 

He lifted his gaze, only to stare down the barrel of a gun. His face went slack, his mouth opening to question, but words had shied away. Mycroft’s hand was steady as he flicked the safety off, and slowly twisted the gun to offer the grip to Sherlock.

 

“Take it.”

 

Unsure of what else to do, Sherlock obeyed, taking it. He held it with his fingers, pinching the grip, holding it level as he stared down at it. Finally, he shook his head and looked back up at his brother.

 

“I don’t underst-”

 

“Shoot the dog.”

 

Ice flooded the younger brother’s veins. He tensed so quickly he was surprised it wasn’t painful. His breath sputtered and died in his lungs.

 

_Pickapuppyteamworkbythetimeitisfullytrainedsowillyoubebutitisjustadogwhatdoesthatmattersitstayrolloverplaydeadgofetchgooddogfollowingordersbutitisnotadogatallheismeredbeardismeheissupposedtobemefollowingordersbeingobedientbutitisnotadogatallheisjustalambforslaughterbutheismineheisme._

 

Sherlock looked down at the dog, who tilted his head curiously at the pair of them.

 

“What was the point of having him at all?” he wondered, his voice shaking.

 

“It is not a Kingsman’s place to ask questions, Sherlock. Caring is not an advantage,” the older brother explained with an air of indifference. He had moved his piece, but Sherlock paid no mind. He didn’t care, he didn’t care, _he didn’t care_. And if he didn’t care, why did he join the Kingsman? Because Arthur invited him? No, it-

 

No, it didn’t matter. None of it mattered if he didn’t care.

 

Sherlock set the gun down in the middle of the chessboard and got up out of his seat.

 

“I see,” Mycroft finally said slowly, disappointment dripping in his tone, and Sherlock saw himself being haunted by it for years to come.

 

Sherlock was never wrong.

 

He held his breath and left the room, Redbeard hurrying after him. Mycroft let him go, before looking at the chessboard. He had left the White Queen in reach of the Black Knight.

 

The queen never fell.


End file.
